In Two Thousand and Eleven Years
by and Teng
Summary: Dave Karofsky could wait thousands of years before romancing Kurt, well content on writing letters that will never be sent. Kurt, well, isn't that patient. Oneshot, Karommel, some time around "Sexy"


**In Two Thousand and Eleven Years**

**Summary:** Dave Karofsky could wait thousands of years before romancing Kurt, well content on writing letters that will never be sent. Kurt, well, isn't that patient. Oneshot, Karommel, some time around "Sexy"

**Warnings:** A few offensive terms, not beta-d, and homosexuality

**Disclaimer: **Glee ain't mine, neither is anything I mentioned that happened to be copyrighted.

* * *

A bulky teenager ripped a sheet out of a thinning notebook. He laid it neatly on his desk and clicked a pen. His fittingly large feet were planted firmly on the ground to keep the swivel chair from moving as he wrote heavily.

"_Dear Kurt Hummel,_

_Maybe a thousand years will go be before you could even read this letter. A thousand years for the ashes to rejoin themselves and reform every word written in black ink. Yeah, a thousand and a lot of luck mixed with magic- maybe two thousand years. But then you would have to willingly read a poorly made letter by a homophobic hamhock, so an extra eleven can be fairly added. Two thousand and eleven years with some fairy dust before you could possibly read this letter. Don't worry, we can scrap the magic dirt off my arm or something._

_Maybe in the same amount of time, I could apologize and we could be together forever, like a Disney movie. Maybe Beauty and the Beast except instead of some douche muscle-man pursuing you, you had a dense and blind hobbit. And because it would take us two thousand eleven years to be an 'us,' I'm sure another thousand wouldn't be too much to ask for. I can imagine the next three thousand and eleven years now..._

_The first four hundred would be spent living in the middle of nowhere(Missouri) in a two bedroom cottage. One room would be filled with mirrors and the other occupied by something scary like a polar bear or your dad. Maybe I'd either learn to actually like myself or I get myself mauled._

_The next three hundred years would be my extremely slow escape from the closet. Maybe fight a witch and kick ass with a lion on the way. _

_A decent five hundred to convince you I'm truly sorry. That my dick of a head grew out of self-hatred rather than you-hatred. In this time, I'll learn to sing and totally catch you off guard with '_Careless Whisper'_ or something equally _'it's all my fault!'

_Three hundred years spent living back in that cottage because you, I assume would, forgave me and I honestly wouldn't know what to do afterwards. The same amount of time before I move coincidentally close to you and apologize, again._

_Then eleven years... time has flown past so fast... In eleven years, I would propose to you, even if it's the same day I ask you out. Because spending a dozen years without promising we'd be forever, even compared to my extremely long lifetime, would hurt worse than a kick to my two thousand and twenty-eight year old body._

_And the extra thousand years of us being married... I wouldn't mind never going to heaven._

_My last year would be spent telling you every day that I love you."_

Dave abruptly stopped writing. It hurt too much after those words. He would just get stuck in an impossible dream world when he wrote, where gay was okay. And then, as the 'winner,' he would actually get the guy. But that was lame, stupid, and _gay_, especially the dream world. Especially the fairy tales.

He nervously made his way down the stairs. Despite doing this multiple time before, he would always get this strange, horrible feeling. Guilt? Regret? Anger? He excused himself from the house, claiming he needed to get to Azimio's. His dad questioned nothing but the undeniable disappointed aura refused to leave. Only once after the Hummel incident did it dissipate: when he won the championship game.

A black duffel bag was strung over his shoulder filled with everything he needed. The last time Dave tried this at home, the fire alarm wouldn't shut up. He had to lie with a plain stupid excuse that his small, sweet cockatiel managed to turn on the stove and burn a fallen feather. His mother almost cooked poor Chris.

In a small clearing in the forests found in the more rural parts of Ohio, he headed to his man-made ditch. The teen always brought a plastic water jug with him. The dry plants and sticks(_'fagots,'_ he thought humorously) quickly began burning when a lit match was added in.

The first sheet was dropped in. And then another as his weeks-worth of letters to a certain flamboyant boy diminished. No letter ended properly. Just with the similar cut-off:

'_I love you, Kurt Hummel, always and only you.'_

'_I know it's wrong but I love you.'_

'_Why couldn't you have just kissed me back and loved me?'_

Dave Karofsky, being the horrible and intimidating teen he was known as, cried openly into his ash-kissed palms. And too busy in his breakdown, he didn't notice his most recent letter flop out of the bag. He didn't feel an extra kick of wind pass his shudders and guide the paper into the clean sight of a stork.

* * *

Brittany stared up at the nest on her kept telling her that this didn't mean she was pregnant but then, what else would it mean? It was Saturday and around twelve, the builder of the arrangement of random sticks and leaves should be coming back soon. Suddenly, she noticed the busy stork fly by and drop a piece of paper.

The cheerleader rushed over, yelling, "Wait! You dropped something!" But it seemed to just ignore her. _Rude._ Brittany picked up the sheet before noticing immediately the first three words.

"Dear Kurt Hummel," That's all she needed to read before grabbing her sparkly bike and speedily made her way to the Hudmel's house. He should be back from his magic school today! But she was also confused, wasn't Kurt gay? Well, dolphins have babies all time too... Did that mean he was a fish-person?

After ringing the doorbell about a trillion times rapidly(fourteen), Burt opened the door.

"Hi, Mr Hummel! I really need to talk to Kurt!" She smiled brightly at the man. Brittany had taken his advice earlier and convinced her parents to install a burglary alarm. Except it might be broken, it keeps catching Santana!

"Um, hello, Brittany..." He was still wary of her from the incident last year, "Kurt! Get down here!"

No sooner, impeccably dressed Kurt was greeting his unexpected messenger. "Do you need help getting back home?" he asked sweetly.

She furiously shook her head, "Maybe later but that's not why I'm here! You're gonna have a baby!"

"What!" Like father, like son... or at least their simultaneous yell was.

"Kurt what did I just talk to you about-!"

"Dad! I'm a _gay _virgin! Promise! Brittany, what on Gaga's new album are you talking about?" They both turned to her.

"A stork gave me this. I didn't read it because it's not mine." The blond nodded proudly, remembering Santana's training. She handed over the letter and Kurt's eyes quickly scanned the wrinkled notebook paper.

"What in God's name?" Burt murmured while trying and failing to read over his son's shoulder,  
"So no one's preggo?"

Kurt shook his head no, only hugging Brittany with a quick, "Thanks a dozen, I'll skype you..." before shooing her away and running to his room. He was weighing his options.

* * *

Dave found a neatly placed envelope in his locker. Glancing around before confirming to himself that no one was paying attention, he slid it out. Inside, in glittery purple cursive, a note was addressed back to him... How in the world?

"_Dear Dave Karofsky,_

_Two thousand and eleven years have yet to pass, at least not on my calendar. But here you must be, reading a response to your elaborately unorthodox and ironically sent letter. Perhaps it was magic or the enchanting dead skin cells on your body that gave a stork this letter. Enough to pass it on to an endearing blond cheerleader but regardless, it reached its destination._

_Your whole plan sounds interesting, I guess, but I ask that maybe instead of so many centuries, you can squash it into twenty days and eleven hours? Hopefully less, like at least fourteen days. Here, clean and organized:_

_Four day to realize your worth because even you're allowed to live, Dave. _

_Three days to tell the people you care about. Because here's a wonderful quote by a genius anon: "There comes a time in your life when you realize who will always matter, who does matter, and who never did. So don't worry about people from your past; there's a reason why they didn't make it to your future."_

_Two days to find my number or figure out a message to send over facebook._

_Five days, but probably less after your last letter, before I completely forgive you. _

_And hopefully you won't spend almost a week running from me and maybe, in a span of two weeks, you can take me to the Ohio Arts Festival. Preferably on a date for a majority of the day. Eleven hours long if it would make you feel better._

_Don't keep me waiting because I certainly don't have a thousand years waiting for either of us._

_Sincerely and anxiously,_

_Kurt Hummel."_

* * *

**A/N: **Typed from a rough draft in like thirty minutes. Yeah, you can hate on my suckish grammar! Hope you enjoyed my one-shot... yay... Also, do tell if you were also like, "Ugh, dammit," when Blaine and Kurt started just mackin'. And it was sorta' inspired by the song 'Misery,' wonderful song by the way in both the original and Glee versions.


End file.
